


this might get loud

by narceus



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narceus/pseuds/narceus
Summary: The bandom AU this fandom didn't know it needed.In which Minato starts a band, Minako makes a serious stab at monogamy, everything is magical realism, and it only hurts as much as hard work and a little hope ever do.





	1. Side A

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST AND FOREMOST, this fic (and the entire extended universe surrounding it) are very much co-owned and curated by the very lovely [conartistprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conartistprince) (of the many tumblr handles), who has been a sounding board and fellow conspirator the whole way. 
> 
> They've also done some _really really great art_ for this 'verse, which can be found at the [bandom tag](https://heythatsdeath.tumblr.com/tagged/Verse%3A-Bandom) on our Persona side-tumblr, where we also have tons of P5 spoilers and random chatfics and god knows what else. Check it out!!!
> 
> Title courtesy of a particular rockumentary about electric guitar, and also the lovely Foxyfoxynoxen, who suggested it.
> 
> This universe exists because of Pete Wentz, the line _loaded god complex, cock it and pull it_ , and a ship between characters who do not even appear in this story. Will there be more? Who knows! (But I'd sure like there to be.)

Minato and Minako spend their eighteenth birthday working, of course.  Drinks at the Velvet Room don’t serve themselves, and somebody’s got to play bouncer to the drunk asshole who won’t stop harassing the girl at tonight’s crappy indie band’s merch table.  Theodore doesn’t have the guts, and the police tend to have careful questions if Elizabeth gets involved.

Margaret doesn’t intervene in minor violence on the floor.  If Margaret ever came down from her office for something, the police would be the least of their problems.

Minako comes back to lean on the bar with a satisfied grin and minus one drunk asshole, shoving a few mussed strands of hair behind one ear.  Minato slides another couple of crap-ass PBRs down to the hipsters at the end of the bar.  “Hey, so I’m not going back to the house,” she mentions in the slightly quieter gap between songs.

“Want me to cover?” Minato asks.  It’s a Tuesday night.  The lady at the latest--and presumably last--foster house would be asleep by the time they got back anyway.  Minako always manages to make it to school for first period, wherever she sleeps, and that’s the important thing.  They’re both pretty good at that.

“Don’t care,” his sister tells him.  “We’re eighteen now.  I’m moving in with Shinji.”

Minato takes a moment to picture his sister’s boyfriend--21 years old, recovering drug addict, ill-advised neck tattoo and a handful of better ones, goddamn impressive metal guitar skills--and nods.  “Makes sense,” he says.

It’s probably the kind of decision that makes people say eighteen-year-olds shouldn’t get to make their own life decisions, but fuck those people.  Not like any of them have ever been around giving Minato and Minako better options.

“We could probably afford a place with an actual bedroom if you went in with us,” Minako points out.  “We could put a couch bed in the living room.”

“If you’ve got your own place I never have to walk in on you having sex again,” Minato says.  “Don’t cheat on this one.”

“You’re one to talk, you whore,” she teases affectionately.  “Fine.  But think about it soon.  They’re not going to let you stay past graduation.”

“So I’ve got four months,” Minato points out.  “Go check the bathrooms for passed-out drunks.”

.

Special Extracurricular Execution Squad, _Wired_ magazine’s top pick for best new hardcore band debut of 2002, died a horrible death in a fiery crash of DUIs and lawyers and vehicular manslaughter charges the October after its three members finally graduated high school.  Everyone knew, instantly--the city is big but the scene’s always been incestuously small, and _everybody_ knew who Mitsuru Kirijo and SEES were in those days.  There were two straight months where a person couldn’t spend ten minutes at a show or a party without somebody bringing up Shinjiro Aragaki and what was going to happen next.

 Minako was just some fifteen-year-old girl lusting after Mitsuru Kirijo’s throaty, blood-curdling scream back then, of course.  Maybe Shinji would’ve given her the time of day when she was a freshman and he was headlining a national tour, maybe not.  Based on the little she actually knows about those days, he was high most of the time anyway.

 Now he’s assistant manager at the weird little anarchist coffee shop where nobody gives him shit for his tattoos, and he goes to meetings every other week while Minako’s out partying with a bunch of drunk teenagers who aren’t anywhere near as good at making music as Shinji used to be.  Life’s funny.

 The scariest thing about taking the train through the dark to the tiny little rathole studio apartment they call ‘home’ at two in the morning is the prospect of making it to English class by 8:00.  The city is mostly dark and still, even the streetcorner shadows done with their lurking for the night.  Maybe if Minako were young and unwary she’d be in trouble, but she’s got more street magic in her blood than most people.  She knows how to throw a punch.  She’s fine.

 (Minako and her brother have more street magic in their blood than just about anybody.  They could probably level the whole city, if they really tried.  There’s a note about it in the social services file they’re not supposed to have read.  It makes social workers and foster parents squirm.  It doesn’t help much, when it comes to affording groceries.)

 Tonight the apartment smells like bread yeast and cheap vinegar cleaning solution.  Minako leaves the light off and finds her way to the fridge by memory and feel.  She smells like sweat and beer and her stomach’s about ready to eat itself.  Snack first, then a shower before she crawls into bed.

 The sum total of their fridge contents include a single bottle of soy sauce, half an onion, two cans of orange soda, and an entire pan of homemade foccacia bread.  Shinji hadn’t even taken a slice.  This is why Minako loves her boyfriend--not, specifically, because he does incredibly sweet things for her like baking her a whole pan of bread for when she gets home from work, but because he’s the guy who thinks about taking care of other people, and then does it.

 Shinji stirs when she finally slips beneath the covers, hair still wet.  “Time is it?” he asks muzzily.

 “Almost three,” she whispers back.  “Sorry.  Go back to sleep.”

 He groans a little, but rolls over to curl an arm around her.  “Got to be up in an hour anyway,” he says.  The coffee shop opens at six, which means Shinji’s usually out the door of the apartment by 4:30.

 “Ugh,” is Minako’s professional opinion.  Maybe someday they’ll get on a closer schedule.  After graduation, she can stay up all night every night and go to bed alone after he’s already left for work if she wants to.  She’ll be able to do whatever she wants.

 .

 Minato’s efficient.  He kisses Elizabeth for the first time a week and a half before the high school graduation ceremony he doesn’t plan to go to.

 It’s hard to tell how old Elizabeth is.  She’s younger than Margaret, definitely, and maybe older than Theodore, or maybe Theodore is just so awkward he seems younger.  There are questions you don’t ask about the three of them.  Their eyes are all liquid gold, and they have a habit of standing or sitting in places just outside of your peripheral vision as though they’ve been there for hours, even when you’re sure they weren’t there a moment ago.  You don’t ask people like that about their age or their background or their last names.  That’s just common sense.

 Minato asks Elizabeth very specific things: “What’s the liquor on special tonight?”, and “Did we get more Coors delivered yet?”, and “Can I get you anything from Starbucks?” and “Can I get you anything from anywhere?”  He never asks her to leave the Velvet Room with him, but she asks him, sometimes, if she can tag along when he runs out for supplies.  He always says yes.  It’s useful to have Elizabeth owe him, a little.  Not too much.

 He doesn’t ask before he kisses her.  It’s half instinct and half that same rough self-destructive impulse that leads to doing things like taking an under-the-table job at a bar that has longer hallways and more shadowy corners than the architecture of the building should allow.  It’s hard to say what Elizabeth could do to him, if she doesn’t like it.

 She kisses back with something that might just be a squeal of delight, so that’s probably great.  It takes almost exactly a week before Elizabeth invites him up to her apartment after that.

 Elizabeth and her siblings all live in the apartments over the Velvet Room.  There’s no telling where the old man lives, besides the black leather chair in his blue blue office upstairs from the bar.  Minato’s never seen him leave it.  He might not.  But Elizabeth’s apartment is up three flights of stairs at the top of the building, inexplicably spacious and cluttered with the most mismatched assortment of junk imaginable.  The windows are huge.  The bed is, too.

 There are equally specific things Minato asks in Elizabeth’s apartment: “Can I touch you there?” and “Do you like that?” and “Do you want me to spend the rest of the night?”  Never, “Can I stay here for a while?”  If she ever says _no_ , Minato can probably sleep on his sister’s floor for the night.

 Never, “Have you done this before?”, either.  Elizabeth is so bubbly and curious and enthusiastic and astonished that he wonders, sometimes--but however old she is it’s definitely older than him, and you don’t ask someone like Elizabeth about her past.

 The answer to “Do you want me to sleep here?” is _yes_ for two full months, which is almost a month and a half longer than Minato thought likely when he started this.  By then, Kenji from math class has moved out of his mom’s house into an apartment near his new college campus with his Craigslist roommate, and he’s happy to let Minato crash on his couch.  At least until he’s sure his roommate isn’t a serial killer.

 .

 Minako more or less gave up on any hopes of making it big in music around the time she moved in with Shinji, and she’s actually fine with that, mostly.  He’ll play with her sometimes, while she sings--not the old electric axe he used to have back in his SEES days, but a slightly worn secondhand acoustic that’s more than enough to fill their tiny apartment with noise.  He’s got less than no interest in ever going back to that life.  More and more, Minako’s not sure she actually wants it without him.  So there’s that.

 The scene is _exhausting_ , is the other thing.  Minato manages to keep up somehow, but Minato’s always been good at deciding exactly when and where to spend his energy.  Besides, Minato’s a skinny, pretty boy with perfectly floppy blue-black bangs and a permanent facial expression like he’s just not quite impressed enough.  The scene was _made_ for boys like him.  Minako...is not.

 Minako can sing and play guitar at least as well as 80% of the guys in actual bands on the scene right now.  Minako’s comfortable hanging out with boys in bands and sound techs in their booth and playing bouncer without breaking a sweat.  Minako is kind to crying girls in the bathroom.  They hate her so much.

 “They don’t hate you,” Minato rolls his eyes whenever she says it out loud.  “What about Saori?”

 And then Minako rolls her eyes back, because yes, Saori adores her.  Saori’s going to college on the east coast and never coming back.  Meanwhile, every scene queen and would-be groupie in town who got off on making snide comments about the awkward girl gets to feel angry and embarrassed forever from the way Minako told them off, and they’re not leaving.

 “I don’t want to be a bitch,” Minako says.  “I’d rather sing flowery acoustic folk songs with my loving boyfriend and the fourteen children we will someday have in our anarchist artist’s commune out in the middle of nowhere--”

 That’s usually when Minato hits her with whatever rag he’s using to wipe out glasses or clean off the bar, which is why she never invites _him_ to join their fictional hypothetical anarchist commune, anyway.  Minato is still trying to make it.  Not big, but big _enough_ .  Music is the only thing that makes him spark up brighter than his usual shadow-self.  He could do just about anything and be fine, just like she could.  It’s hard to imagine him anything like _happy_ without an instrument in his hands somehow _._

 It’s fine.  Time moves on.  Minato plays guitar, and keyboard, and drums, and any other instrument anybody hands him, and never sticks in an actual band.  Minako picks up a few shifts at Shinji’s coffee shop to supplement her under-the-table Velvet Room earnings.  This is what being a real adult is like, apparently.

 .

 Once in a while, every few weeks when they can manage it, Shinji lets Akihiko drag him out for pizza.  It’s always a race and a battle to grab the check first; sure, Shinjiro’s working sixty-hour weeks without overtime or health insurance, but Akihiko’s still a freaking professional musician.  There is no way Akihiko’s making as much as a session musician and filling in as a temp drummer for the fifteen different terrible bands he’s been in lately as he acts like he is.

 Shinjiro always spends half the afternoon eyeing Akihiko to see how he’s doing.  He’s bulked out since high school.  There are somehow even more tattoos on his arms than there used to be, although Shinji would’ve sworn there was no more room a year ago.  He looks tired but not strung out.  He’s not using, or nothing stronger than the occasional booze at least.  He was never the stupid one who went picking up habits like that.  Another three years running around with that crowd hasn’t changed him that much.  Shinji would be able to tell.  He probably doesn’t need to keep checking, but he checks all the same.  Akihiko’s the closest thing he’s ever had to family.

 Today, Minako manages to swipe the bill before either of them get to it; Shinji’s pretty sure she had a word with the waitress when she went to the bathroom earlier.  He’s half proud and half ready to roll his eyes.  All he needs is another one like Aki.

 "So where to now?” she asks, hands on her hips and looking way too proud of herself.  “I’ll let you buy me ice cream.”

“I can do that for a while,” Akihiko agrees.  “But I’ve got a show tonight.  Concert in the park.  You should come.”

Shinji really does groan this time.  Fucking Aki.  “ _No_ ,” he says.

“It’s in the park,” Akihiko says.  “All ages.  No alcohol.”  Which is fine, except it never just ends there with Akihiko.

“I’ve got work tomorrow morning,” Shinjiro says.  “Minako can go if she wants.”

She’s looking back and forth between them curiously.  She goes to shows all the time--it’s fine, she loves music, gets along with the scene just fine.  He’s not going to take that from her because of his hangups.  She was a SEES fan back in the day.  She’d probably get a kick out of Aki’s drumming.

“I think I will,” Minako says.  “If you don’t mind me hanging out.”

“Of course not,” Akihiko says.  “You’re practically family,” and Shinji has the sudden flash of certainty that he’s made yet one more terrible mistake.

.

Minato’s the one who got them the jobs at the Velvet Room, when they were sixteen and hiring them to work in a bar was even more illegal than it is now.  It’s only fair that Minako return the favor.

 “You should meet this guy,” she says.  “He’s cool, and he’s connected.”

 “What, to the mob?” Minato asks.  She punches him in the shoulder.

 “It’s Akihiko Sanada and I told him you can play,” Minako says.  “He wants to hear you.  He’s played in every other band on the scene, _and_ he’s still tight with Mitsuru Kirijo.”

 It makes Minato actually glance up through his swoop of bangs.  “I don’t need a label rep,” he says.

 “You need a band,” says Minako.  “Just play for him.”

 It’s not as though Minato’s really in a position to say no--he’s moved from Kenji’s couch to imposing on Kaz and Yuko, whose duo really doesn’t need a second guitarist any more than their proto-relationship needs a third wheel.  If something doesn’t change soon he’s going to have to either take a chance on his own Craigslist roommate, or pick a random scene queen to start dating just for the bed.  Which is how he finds himself in this surprisingly large and tidy apartment with his sister and a guy who half the girls in the scene are madly in love with, strumming idly at a guitar.

 “Just play anything,” Sanada suggests.

 He’s not tall, although everyone’s taller than Minato, but he’s got presence.  He’s also got that extra little sparkle when Minako smiles at him or brushes his shoulder, the one that says he’s _hers_ .  Minato doesn’t particularly feel like dealing with that right now, so he strikes up a few chords.  The opening to the fifth track off SEES’s first album, to be exact, because he feels like being _that_ asshole today.

 It’s a tricky bit of guitar work--Shinjiro was a better guitarist at his worst than most people ever are sober.  Minato’s up to it, but his ear and his fingers like to work together without bothering to check in with his brain, and he generally finds it’s better to trust them.  He modulates the chords, drops down for an extra minor riff, lets the music go.  There’s no bass to fill in the rhythm so he improvises, throwing in the lower notes, fingers quick and sure.  Playing guitar might be the easiest thing Minato’s ever done in his life.

 He doesn’t bother to look up past the fall of his hair to see how Sanada’s taking it until he hits the end of the song, and then he blinks up expectantly.  Sanada will be impressed, if he’s not offended about the song choice.  People usually are.

 “Wow,” Sanada comments.  “Can you sing, too?”

 “No,” Minato says.

 “Yes,” says his sister.  “He just hates doing it in front of people.  He writes music, too.”

 “Any good?” Sanada asks.  Minato shrugs.

 “You’re asking me?”  He doesn’t fucking know.  It’s music.  It feels right.

 “There’s some people you should meet,” Sanada says.  “Actually, two people, specifically, you should meet.”

 .

 “Have you slept with him yet?” Minato asks afterwards on the walk to the bus stop, like he doesn’t care one way or another.  Minako hits him harder than usual to fight some of the rush of shame and irritation flooding her cheeks with heat.

 “I have a boyfriend,” she says.  “Shinji’s it for me.”  Forever, even, maybe.  Wouldn’t that be something?

 “He likes you,” Minato says.  “You’ve got him.”

 Minato can always tell, the same way she can always tell when he’s gotten his hooks into somebody.  They do it differently, but the end result is the same.

 Minako’s got a shoebox, shoved down under the spare blankets in the back of the closet in her and Shinji’s apartment, full of trinkets and odd keepsakes from a lifetime of people who fell into her web for a little while.  A special pen from the girl who tutored her in algebra in freshman year.  A ceramic cat from the foster home they lived in, ages 9-12, before Nana Mitsuko had to move into the nursing home.  A torn ticket stub from the last concert she went to with the first boy she ever slept with.  The cassette tape from Saori’s super-dramatic school PA incident.  Shinji’s old pocket watch.

 Minato has a backpack, she knows.  Easier to carry on the move.  Same idea, slightly different collection.  A wrist brace from his friend Kaz, a dog-eared shoujo manga from that shy girl he was fucking for a while last year, a keychain one of his internet friends mailed him, a few persimmon seeds from the tree in Papa Bunkichi and Nana Mitsuko’s yard.  They share people, sometimes, if the people are important enough.

 Minako’s collection shimmers a little if she looks at it in exactly the right light.  Like the faintest shimmer of stardust.  Like the way Shinji looks when he smiles at her, right before he kisses her.  Like the way Akihiko’s just started to glimmer, since she went to his show in the park the other week and they ended up in a Dunkin Doughnuts at one in the morning, drinking coffee and eating crap and talking about Shinji and life and music and everything that matters in the world.

 It’s easy to collect people.  It’s easy to pull them in.  People are _good_ , Minako really believes that, they all shine a little in their own way if you just know how to look.  They’re all so good.  She gets something new and different from each one of them.

 “I’m not going to sleep with Shinjiro’s best friend,” Minako says instead.  “I don’t even know if he likes girls.  The groupies practically throw themselves at him and he doesn’t even blink.  Maybe you should try him.”

 Minato looks at her sideways from underneath that stupid emo-boy haircut.  “You want me to take him off your hands?”

 “I want to be friends with him,” Minako says.  “I’m a grown-up.  Grown-ups can be actual friends.”

 “If you cheat on your boyfriend, you can’t move in with me,” Minato says.  “Don’t get caught.”

 “I don’t do that any more,” Minako says.  She’s thinking about a shoebox full of the weirdest assortment of odds and ends, a special-edition guitar pick, a gold-plated necklace she’s never worn, a Hot Topic gift card, the watch Shinji still thinks he lost months ago.

 Her brother, who knows her way too well, doesn’t say anything.

 .

 Yukari Takeba has plans.  She’s going to go to college for music theory and education, she’s going to graduate with an actual degree, she’s going to get a real job, and she’s going to be one of those respectable 9-5 sellouts with actual paying employment who don’t need a string of boyfriends supporting them just to make rent.  It’s a good plan.

 Open mike nights at the bar near campus are just...Yukari’s way of venting some of the pressure.  She’s good at writing lyrics.  She’s good at playing guitar.  Maybe she’s not professional material, but that’s fine.  She doesn’t want to go pro.  She wouldn’t trust any label rep that wanted to talk to her, anyway.

 Label reps can’t be trusted.  Everybody knows that.

 “Hey, Yukari!”  She recognizes the bleached-white hair on the man flagging her down from the bar easily enough even in the little bit of a crowd.  He’s got a friend with him that Yukari’s never seen around here before.  “Nice job up there.  Was that a new one?”

 “Yeah, thanks!”  Yukari doesn’t really understand why women always seem to give Akihiko _that look_ when they’re hanging out, but she’s not immune to the flush of pride over a compliment.  “The melody’s still kind of weak, but I think the basics are there.”

 “Change the key to go with the tempo shift in the chorus,” Akihiko’s friend suggests in a distant monotone.  “Go up the diminished eighth instead of the full octave.”

 Yukari blinks.  She wants to rip into him--what the hell does he know about her songs--but...running it through in her head, that would be perfect.  That would make the whole thing fit together better.

 “You’re right,” she says.  “Thanks.  And you are…?”

 “Yukari, this is Minato Arisato,” Akihiko says, introductions just a little belated.  “He writes music.”

 “I can see that,” Yukari says, smile still firmly in place, not quite sure where this is headed.  Minato’s cute, in that hot indie kind of way, but that’s probably not why Akihiko brought him here to introduce to her.  This feels like a setup, and not the kind the girls in Yukari’s dorm would engineer.

 “He plays just about everything, and he’s looking for some people to play with,” Akihiko explains.  “He wants to put together a band.”

 “Something like that,” Minato offers.

 “I’ve been telling Yukari she’s too good to stay hidden in the corner of this place forever,” Akihiko says, which is somehow even more embarrassing in front of Minato than when he’s said it to Yukari alone.  “I knew I had to hook you guys up.”

 Does Akihiko even understand what it sounds like he means when he says things like that?  Yukari wonders if she’s blushing.  She’s not one of those girls who hangs on boys in bands.  She can play guitar, and keyboard, and sing.  She could be in a band herself.  There’s just something about this guy...he’s said all of two things so far, and she’s already feeling awkward about him.  She doesn’t usually crush this fast.

 “We should talk, then,” Yukari says.  “Want a drink?”

 “They card here?” Minato asks.  So he’s underage then, like her.  That’s kind of nice, actually.

 “It’s a college bar, so yeah,” Yukari says apologetically.  He lifts a shoulder in the barest approximation of a shrug.

 “Coke, then,” he says.  “Let’s grab a table.”

 .

 Yukari is pink and her aura is black and cream, with the tiniest shimmer of gold around the edges.  It gets brighter when she’s playing the guitar.  She laughs easily enough, but she doesn’t mean it all that much.  Sometimes, with a little effort, Minato can make her laugh for real.

 She’s soft and too generous in bed, and this is probably too much too fast.  It’s the sort of thing that kills bands.  But it’s not like they have a real band yet.  

 Besides, Minato’s not spending _every_ night in her dorm room.  It’s easy to alternate, Yukari’s on Monday and Wednesday nights because her Tuesday-Thursday classes start late and she doesn’t mind, Kenji’s for obligatory epic video game tournaments on Thursday and back on Sundays when he’s too busy with last-minute homework to notice Minato’s sleeping over again, Kaz and Yuko’s place on Tuesdays when his shift’s over at the Velvet Room.  Fridays and Saturdays, when everything is even louder and wilder and later than every other day, Minato picks a party and sleeps wherever he ends up finding a spot around dawn.

 His sister’s the one who always wanted a place that was just her own.  Minato needs more space alone with his own thoughts than most people seem to, but he also seems to be a lot better at finding it.  He knows the way to the rooftop of every building he regularly sleeps in and then some.  He can walk the city for hours if he wants to.  Nobody at the Velvet Room minds if he plugs up a guitar into the sound system at nine in the morning and just plays and plays and plays until it’s time to sound check the band for that night.

 Minato lives in the spaces other people carve out for him, a sliver here and there, enough to add up to one whole person.  It’s not like he’s ever had anything just his own to compare it to.  Anyway Minato’s not really real, if other people aren’t looking at him.  He figured that out years ago.

 Yukari’s got no father and as good as no mother, and enough pain and anger for an entire discography of emo pop-punk chart toppers.  Minato’s not always great with words, but Yukari needs his chords and someone to handle any or all of the other instruments while she sings.  She trusts him to back her up.

 There have been worse starts in musical history.

 .

 It’s too quiet in the apartment in the middle of the day, and too _hot_ , even with all the drapes pulled to block out the last-week-of-August sun.  Minako can’t breathe, so she takes Shinji’s guitar out to the fire escape and sits on the wooden steps, strumming idle chords and lifting her head for every hint of a passing breeze that comes by.

 She’s probably out there for an hour or so before she hears footsteps behind her, and then Shinji settles down two steps above her, just touching her shoulders with his knees.  “There you are,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.  “Thought you might be out here.”

 Minako tilts her head backwards to look at him.  He’s still wearing long sleeves and that stupid hat.  Shinji can’t thermoregulate for shit.  She needs to get him a second hat to switch out once in a while so they can do laundry.

 “Here,” Minako says, lifting the guitar up to slip the strap off her shoulder and pass it back to him.  “Play something.”

 “What do you want me to play?” Shinji asks.  There’s a smile in his voice even if she can’t see it on his face.  Minako leans back against his knees, as close as she wants to come in the golden glow of the late afternoon heat, and smiles lazily.

 “Anything,” she says.  “Something sweet.”

 “Sweet?” Shinji asks, his own strumming as idle as hers was while he checks the tuning.  “Like this?”  E minor, G, D, A, and then again, and she grins when he syncopates the rhythm a little on the third repeat and she catches on.  Perfect.

 “[Today was gonna be the day that they’re gonna throw it back to you](https://youtu.be/Y7I1nCcwJP0) _,_ ” she sings as an answer.   _“By now, you should’ve somehow realized what you’ve got to do.”_

 They’re such a cliche and she doesn’t even care.  This is it, this is everything she’s ever wanted.  They’re tucked in the shade of the stairs above them against the side of the building, a little too warm and completely safe, and just past the edge of the shadow the whole world is bright and golden.  The guitar strings hum velvety and magic in the air.  She’s home.  This is what a _home_ is supposed to feel like.

 “ _I said maybe,_ ” Minako sings, and Shinji’s voice is there too, a gravelly untrained low harmony just loud enough to hear.   _“You’re gonna be the one that saves me.”_

 She doesn’t need anything more than this.

 .

Kenji’s roommate is pretty much a bro, but Kenji’s pretty much a douchebag, so.  It’s not like Minato minds.  He’s a freshman at the same college as Yukari, which means the first time she ends up over at Kenji’s place the eyeroll could flatten half the city.

 “Hello, Junpei,” she says flatly.  Junpei just grins and pulls himself up on the back of the ratty Craigslist couch where Minato’s probably sleeping again tonight.

 “What brings you over here?” he asks, nodding at Yukari’s guitar.  “You two lovebirds going to make some beautiful music together?”

 “What?  We’re not--” Yukari sputters.

 “We’re starting a band,” Minato says.  “Probably kind of emo/post-hardcore.”

 “Really?  Sweet,” Junpei says, with the enthusiasm of someone who stopped listening after ‘band’ and wouldn’t know the difference between post-hardcore and pop-punk if he found an entire essay about it on Myspace.  “You know, I play bass.”

 “Of course you do,” Yukari sighs.  “Look, thanks for letting us borrow your living room and all, but we’ve got some songs we’ve got to practice--”

 “They could use a bassline,” Minato says.  Either Junpei will get bored and won’t be able to keep up, or he’ll actually be good, but either way they’re not Kaz and Yuko or Jack and Megan White, and a _real_ band needs more than two members.  “Want to jam with us?”

 If they can get Junpei up to speed on half a dozen songs, Igor’ll probably let them play in front of an actual audience at the Velvet Room on some random weeknight, just for the practice.  They can probably even talk Akihiko into backing them up for a night.  The band was his idea after all.

 He doesn’t bother to explain any of this to Yukari as she gapes at him--Junpei’s bedroom and his guitar are all of ten feet away--but she’ll figure it out.  Or she won’t, and she’ll ask him later.  She’s too polite to go back on the invitation now, and that’s what matters.

 “Warm up with that Lostprophets song?” he suggests, pulling his own guitar into his lap.  It’s been on the actual radio.  Junpei’s probably heard it at least once.

 “Sure, fine, whatever,” Yukari sighs.

 “Wait, which song?” Minato slides into the opening chords without bothering to glance at Junpei.  He’ll pick it up.

 “Follow it along,” he says.  Junpei fumbles for his bass as Yukari takes a deep breath.  She likes this one.

 “[When our time is up, when our lives are done...](https://youtu.be/mUO2MV4id1s)”

 .

 The day after Akihiko finally hears Minato sing for the first time, he swings by Mitsuru’s office as soon as he gets done at the studio for the day.  She’s barely been home in a week and a half.  Her bedroom door’s been closed sometimes and open others, but it’s about the only sign he has that she’s been sleeping at home at all.

 Mitsuru’s always been a workaholic, and it’s only gotten worse since that last argument with Ikutsuki.  She wants more creative direction at Kirijo Records, and she’s prepared to put in the office time to earn it.  Sixty hours a week of it.

 Akihiko’s still a little uncomfortable in the glossy halls of the label’s office building, just like he’s a scrawny, scruffy fifteen-year-old coming in to see his manager and tracking dirt in on the carpet again.  The pictures on the walls are all tattoo-covered musicians like him posing next to microphones or platinum records, but all the people here are wearing suits.

 Including Mitsuru.  God, he never thought he’d see the day when Mitsuru-- _Mitsuru Kirijo_ , with her wild mane of blood-red hair and the sides of her head shaved down, with her plaid skirt and her fifty cartilage piercings and her halter top showing off crossed rapiers and icicles inked across her shoulders--went corporate.  Her hair only reaches a little past her chin now.  It’s all the same length and Akihiko’s pretty sure that’s the color it actually comes out of her head.  He hasn’t seen her leave the apartment in a shirt with sleeves short enough to show off her tattoos in god knows how long.

 Akihiko plays a game with himself whenever he has to come here, trying to spot little signs that Mitsuru still remembers who she used to be.  She’s got a framed photo of them on her office wall, red armbands on and grinning like vicious young wolves, sweat-streaked in the sunlight on Warped Tour in 2004, next to the gold record for _Evoker._  It’s hanging on the wood-paneled wall next to the door where most guests won’t even see it until they leave, but there’s a direct line of sight from Mitsuru’s desk chair.

 “Mitsuru, you need to meet this kid,” Akihiko says, not for the first time.  “He’s incredible.”

 He drums restlessly on the leather back of the chair he’s leaning against, because he’ll be damned if he sits down across the desk from his own best friend and roommate like this is a _business meeting_.  Even if it maybe is.

 “I have to meet a lot of kids, Akihiko,” Mitsuru sighs, shoving a file over towards a pile of paperwork.  “I’ll try, okay?”

 “Seriously,” Akihiko repeats.  “He writes great music, and his voice is unbelievable.  This band is really coming together.  Yukari’s on second guitar, remember, I told you about her--”

 “The one who doesn’t trust label reps and doesn’t want to be signed?”  Trust Mitsuru to remember that part.

 “The one who’s really talented and writes great lyrics,” Akihiko says.  “They’re not there yet, but when they’re ready, she’ll go along with the rest of the band.  They’re _good._ ”

 “Lots of bands are good, Akihiko,” Mitsuru says.  “That’s not the only thing it takes to make it in this industry.  You know that.”

 “These guys are special,” Akihiko insists.  “Look, just come listen to us on Wednesday, okay?  We’ve got a show at the Velvet Room.”

 “We?”  Mitsuru’s focus sharpens at that.  Trust her not to miss a trick.  “You’re just filling in for them, right?”

 The truth is…“I don’t know,” Akihiko admits.  “If this works out the way I think it might, maybe not.  This could be it for me.”

 He’s only practiced with them a couple of times, just enough to get the basics of the material, but it felt good.  It felt _right_.  And anybody who didn’t know the first thing about music could tell, especially listening to Minato sing, that these guys are on the verge of something special.  Akihiko wants to be a part of that again.

 “...I’ll come,” Mitsuru says.  “Wednesday, you said?”

 “We go on at nine,” Akihiko agrees.  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

 .

Music venues, the good ones, always have a little something limnal about them.  They’re always a little half-step away from the world.  Time passes differently inside, slow and fast by turns.

The Velvet Room turns all of that up a handful of degrees, with its blue-blue-blue walls and its backstage hallways that lead nowhere.  Mitsuru hasn’t been here in more than a year.  She sets an alarm on her phone for 11:30 and a second one for five minutes before midnight, knowing as she does that it’s probably useless.  Cell phones tend to be unpredictable here.  She’ll make it out before sunrise, anyway, although if she stays past midnight there’s no telling how long that might be.

Usually she wouldn’t risk it.  It’s a weeknight.  She’s got work in the morning.

According to her phone it’s 8:45 when she walks in the door, so the band could start in five minutes or five hours.  Mitsuru finds a seat at the half-empty bar and waits patiently for an obviously underage girl with black-and-auburn hair and strikingly red eyes to spot her.

“So you did come,” the girl says.  “I’m glad.  Can I get you a drink?”

Mitsuru raises her eyebrows.  “Vodka cranberry.  Have we met?”

“Akihiko said you might be here,” the girl says, which explains everything and nothing, already busy reaching for a glass.  “My brother’s in the band.”

 Ah.  Well, sparing the question of just who and _what_ , exactly, Akihiko has gotten himself involved with--Mitsuru’s ready to put all her money on this girl’s brother being the boy with the plethora of skills and the exceptional voice, and she’s got plenty of money--that at least makes sense.   

 “Akihiko’s very excited about your brother’s band,” Mitsuru allows.  Somebody’s bustling around over on the grubby little stage area, though it’s obviously still last-minute tech setup.  She’s got a good view from here.  Well, she’ll see what Akihiko’s so worked up about.

 “He’ll be really happy you came,” the girl says.  She slides Mitsuru’s drink across the counter with an expert flick of the wrist.  She really can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.  Then again, working in this place she may not even be entirely human.  “Four bucks.”

 Mitsuru takes a sip of her drink and blinks a little.  That’s not bottom-shelf vodka.  “Four?”

 “Grey Goose on double-discount tonight,” the girl says blithely.  “Oh hey, here they go.”

 Sure enough, a rattling of snares and a strumming of chords pulls Mitsuru’s attention back to the stage.  Three kids, unremarkable enough, with guitars; Akihiko behind the drum set, ready to go.  He looks happy.  Even if the band is terrible--and they won’t be, not with Akihiko this invested in them--that’s worth seeing.

 The boy in front, the blue-haired one who has to be the lead guitarist, has his eyes closed.  His hands move, a dissonant slide all the way up the D string turning into an A-sharp-minor chord, one, two and then the drums drop in.

 They’re good.  Mitsuru has to give them that.

 The music itself is interesting, shifting key and mood so fast within the same song their own bass player can just barely keep up.  Could be inexperience--Mitsuru would probably have trouble with a song or two herself, as out of practice as she’s been lately.  The girl’s vocals are open and clear, a little too sweet and pleasant for the genre they seem to be going for, but an impressive range.  Akihiko is excellent as usual.  They’ve let him write some of his own drum parts.  She can tell.

 The vodka cranberry magically refreshes itself when she sets the empty glass next to her elbow, somewhere mid-set.  Mitsuru sips it and listens for tone quality, creative arrangement, relatable lyrical content.  It’s all there, all the elements--but is it enough?  So many bands are good.  She’d consider signing this one, with a little more experience, but that doesn’t seem to be exactly what Akihiko’s looking for.

 “Thanks for listening to us tonight.”  The girl on stage moves up to the microphone, suddenly nervous now that she’s talking instead of singing.  “We’re Orpheus, and we’re pretty new, so thanks for letting us try some of our stuff out on you.  We don’t have too many songs yet, so we thought we’d end the set off with one you probably all already know.”

 If it’s ‘Freebird’, she’s going to punch Akihiko in the spleen.  Then the girl steps back from the microphone, puts her hands to the strings, and strums out [an achingly familiar five-note phrase](https://youtu.be/1tGO1Y4FGpI).  The lead guitarist picks up the mike and finally opens his eyes.

 “ _So,_ ” the song goes, “ _so you think you can tell heaven from hell._ ”

 Oh.  So that’s what Akihiko meant about the boy’s voice.

 It’s haunting.  It’s not particularly deep, just a silky-smooth tenor that would be nice enough on its own, but it resonates somewhere a little farther down than human voices are meant to resonate.  The noise level in the bar just dropped by a third, which is useful for letting Mitsuru properly analyze the situation.  The backing music’s pulled away a little, barely any drum at all, just the melody and a simple bass line, and that voice.

 The boy’s eyes pass over the bar, settle on _her_ for a moment, dark and intense enough that Mitsuru holds back a shiver.  Then his attention sweeps right past and focuses behind her--the bartender?  Mitsuru doesn’t turn around to check.  She glances towards the back of the stage, where Akihiko _is_ watching her, specifically.

 “ _How I wish, how I wish you were here,_ ” the boy sings.  He’s not even looking in Mitsuru’s general direction any more and she feels guilty.

 Oh, Akihiko.  She’s here tonight, what else does he want her to do for him?  She hasn’t left, not really.  She just...grew up.  They couldn’t stay as they were, even he had to see that.

 The song lingers for one of those long, long, ephemeral moments, and then the boy stops singing.  The guitar and drums trail off after him.

 The bar is quiet for a moment, just a moment, before people remember scattered applause and their own conversations and lives.  Mitsuru puts a twenty down on the bar under her empty glass, nods for the girl, and stands up.

 “You can still get backstage through the second door on the right from the ladies’ room, right?” she asks.

 “Third door on the right,” says the girl.  “Two lefts, and avoid the hallway where the lights don’t turn on.  Give me just a sec and I’ll get your change.”

 “Keep it,” Mitsuru says.

 .

 Junpei doesn’t really know what he’s doing here.  He really doesn’t.  But if it keeps feeling like _that_ , he’s sure not about to let anybody else know.

 “We killed it!” he whoops, setting his bass down very carefully backstage.  Someday they’re going to be the kind of insane big-deal rockers who can afford to trash an instrument after a performance, but for now, that shit’s expensive, yo.  “Did you see them out there?  We were awesome!”

 “Don’t get cocky,” Akihiko warns, because he’s like a grumpy old man buzzkill who likes to pretend he’s seen and done everything before.  Well, he’s the one who chose to be here with them, so what does that tell you?  “We’ve still got a long way to go.”

 “Yeah, but it was pretty good, wasn’t it?”  Yukari’s all flushed and grinning.  “They liked The Full Moon Ballad a lot.”

 “Still say we need better song names,” Junpei puts out there, and flops down on the backstage couch.

 There’s all this _equipment_ you need to be in a rock band, pedals and amps and Akihiko’s entire drum set and shit, and they have to pack all of it back up in Akihiko’s van before they go home for the night.  Apparently that’s what roadies are for, when you’re a big enough deal to have actual roadies.  But it doesn’t need to happen _right this second._

 “Oh, I don’t know,” an unfamiliar voice says.  “You can get away with a lot of strange song titles in this business.”  Junpei almost tumbles over the arm of the couch, craning around to look at the woman behind him.

 She’s freaking gorgeous, although not in the same kinda creepy blonde Velvet Room way as that Elizabeth chick Minato was talking to before the show.  She’s this tall redhead in skinny jeans and a black t-shirt from some band Junpei’s never heard of before, smiling at them.

 “Oh man, I _knew_ we’d be bringing in the hot chicks,” Junpei’s mouth crows before his brain can suggest that maybe that’s not the greatest idea.  Although, he just called her hot, so at least it’s a compliment?  The lady goes pink.  Yukari’s just slightly too far away to smack him, so that’s probably good.

 “You came.”  Akihiko sounds about as happy as he gets over the half-pound burgers at Chuck’s, which means she’s probably his girlfriend or something.  “Guys, this is Mitsuru.  I was hoping she’d stop by tonight.”

 A quick glance shows Minato looking totally unsurprised--yeah, there’s a shocking turn of events--and Yukari all flustered and wary.  “Mitsuru from Kirijo Records?” Yukari asks tentatively, and holy shit, Hot Mitsuru works for a _record label_ ?  They have _so_ made the big time.

 “I’m just here as a friend tonight,” Mitsuru says, disappointingly.  “Akihiko wanted me to hear his new band play.  I must say I’m impressed.  Keep up the good work.”  Man, trust Akihiko to have hot-ass record label contacts.  How cool is that?

 “You really think so?” Yukari asks.  “I mean...just as a friend…”

 “You’re talented, your songs are original and expressive as well as memorable, and you show a lot of promise,” Mitsuru says.  “I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t mean it.”

 “Yeah, but did you _like_ it?” Akihiko presses.  He’s just like a puppy, seriously.

 “I just said I did,” Mitsuru says.  “So I have to ask.  Why ‘Orpheus’?”

 “We write songs about love and death.”  Minato speaks up out of nowhere, just like always, startling as ever.  “It seemed appropriate.”

 Trust the guy to kill that mood.  Sheesh.  Junpei can play a pretty decent bass, but it’s increasingly clear that his role in this band is to be the entire life of every single party from here on out.


	2. Side B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five dorks in a van, a Persona 1 cameo, and the life of a band trying to make it just a little bigger.

“It’s five days,” Minako says.  Shinji slides the sweet potato over the mandolin, concentrates on keeping his fingers away from the blade and cutting every slice perfectly even and thin.  “We’ll be back next Tuesday.”

“You should go,” Shinji says.  “Somebody needs to keep an eye on Aki.  And they could use the help.”

“Somebody has to stand at a table and sell low-quality recordings of four songs that’re already on Myspace,” Minako agrees.  “I think Yukari’s got a friend in her dorm who does silk-screening, so we might even have t-shirts.”

“People like t-shirts,” Shinji agrees.  Three sweet potatoes down, a mountain more to go.  He’ll have to bake them off in batches.  The other week, some guy came into the coffee shop in an old SEES shirt, and he’s still thinking about it now and then.  Stupid.

“Come on,” Minako says.  She wraps her arms around his chest from behind, careful enough not to bump his hands on the sharp thing, but still holding on a little tighter than he really needs.  “Are you mad?”

“I’m not mad,” Shinji promises.  “Come on, don’t grab me like that while I’m cooking.”  It’s a small enough kitchenette to begin with, and he’s got to get the first pile of slices on a baking sheet.

She doesn’t let go until he turns around, finally, trapped between her and the counter and actually looking at her face.  “What are you making, anyway?” Minako asks.

“Sweet potato chips for the road,” Shinji says.  “So you don’t have to eat all that crap they sell at gas stations.  And Akihiko’s not allowed to live on protein bars and beef jerky for a week, got it?  Too much salt in that shit.  I’ll make him something better.”

Her face does that delighted thing that makes his stomach flutter every time before Minako surges up on her tiptoes to kiss him.  His hands are all sweet-potato-covered and she’s already dressed for work tonight, so he can’t grab her shoulders, but Shinji can lean down and let her pull him in and okay, he’s going to be without this for almost a week, maybe he’s kind of upset.  But that’s  _ not _ Minako’s fault.

“October second,” Minako says, pulling away with a determined look in her eyes.  “Tuesday, October second, we’ll be back by two in the afternoon.  You’d better be ready for me.”

“I’m never ready for you,” Shinji admits.  Who the hell is this girl who’s done this to him so completely?  He doesn’t deserve any of this.

Minako actually blushes.  Jeeze.

“C’mon, let me finish these,” Shinji says.  “I still have to make dinner.”

.

_ Orpheus’s rules and suggestions for a successful first tour _ , their Myspace update reads.   _ Day one: never drink before a show. _

.

Akihiko grabs the can right out of Junpei’s hands before it even touches his lips.  “Don’t even think about it,” he says.

“What--man!  What the hell!”  Junpei gapes after him.

It’s a Thursday night in a tiny, dingy little rock bar in the middle of nowhere, basically the only place for like fifty miles that the poor sad kids in this town can get their fill of anything that isn’t shitty country.  The guy in charge hadn’t even glanced at their ID’s, just offered to let them drink for free all night on top of the fifty bucks they’re apparently getting paid for the show.  Junpei  _ thought _ it was a pretty good deal.

“Have as much as you want when we’re done playing,” Akihiko says.  “You don’t need it before we go on.”

“Is it really--” Yukari starts, and then bites her lip.  “I mean, I’m the next shift driver, it doesn’t matter to me, obviously, right?  I’m not drinking tonight anyway.  But is it that different?”

_ Thank _ you, Yukari, Junpei thinks.  It’s not like either of the Creepy Twins are going to speak up on either side.  Minato basically never comments on anything that’s not related to the music or a direct question, and his sister’s off somewhere carting a big box of their home-burned CD’s out to the table by the bar.

“It means you don’t care about your craft,” Akihiko says.  “That you don’t take what we’re about to do seriously.”

“C’mon, it’s not like we’re talking about going out there smashed out of minds,” Junpei protests.  “You telling me you’ve never had one or two before a set to take the edge off?”

“Sure I have,” Akihiko says.  “And now I don’t.  I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you.  Trust me.  if you think you need that shit to perform well, you’re not good enough to begin with.”  Ouch, talk about harsh.  “That’s not how you become a stronger musician.”

“Yeesh,” Junpei mutters.  There’s serious, and then there’s the level Akihiko takes this band stuff on.

“Um, hey, are you guys ready for tonight?” Minako’s in the doorway behind Junpei, obviously nervous.  Walking into band arguments is probably pretty awkward.

.

_ Rule number two: bring enough supplies. _

.

_ Shit. _  Yukari bites her lip.  Stupid stupid stupid girl.  “Can we stop at the next gas station?”

“We just stopped an hour ago,” Junpei calls back from the driver’s seat.  “Your bladder can’t be that small.”

“How about you worry about your bladder and I’ll worry about mine, Stupei?” Yukari grits out.  “Just stop somewhere.”

She’d thought Akihiko’s van was ridiculous the first time she saw it, a huge fifteen-passenger van with the last two benches ripped out, but it actually works really well for lugging around five people and an entire band’s worth of equipment, so long as they don’t bring too much extra shit in their bags.  Like enough spare underwear.  It probably doesn’t need suspicious new bloodstains on the old seats.   _ Why _ hadn’t she checked the calendar?

“The map says there’s a rest stop two miles ahead,” Akihiko reports.  “We can stop there.”

“A rest stop?” Yukari repeats.  “Not a gas station?  Or maybe a Walgreens?”

“Either you need to go  _ so bad _ or you don’t,” Junpei says.  “So am I stopping or not?”

“You should stop at the rest stop,” Minako says.  “I’ve got to go, too.  Please, Junpei?”

“Yeah, fine,” Junpei grumbles.  Yukari tucks a leg up under herself and tries not to resent how easy it is for Minako to get Junpei to just go along with her.

They don’t know each other very well.  Minako’s around when they do shows at the Velvet Room, and when they rehearse there, sometimes, when the bar’s still closed down and they could use an actual stage to practice on.  She’s Minato’s twin sister.  It’s not much of a relationship--hi, I’ve had sex with your brother but we’re really not dating, I swear?  She’s sweet and she’s cool enough, Yukari guesses, even though she apparently decided to skip college to move in with some guy and work at a bar.  She’s also the only other girl on this trip, which means she’s the most likely to have figured out exactly  _ why _ Yukari needs to stop sooner than later.  So.

Yukari’s the first person out of the van as soon as it stops, sure she can feel the thin line of blood trickling down the inside of her leg--she can’t, it’s psychosomatic, the cramps  _ always _ show up first when it’s just a little bit of blood, but knowing that never stops the paranoia--and bee-lines for the bathroom.  Just this once, let the machines not be empty.

Minako catches her standing there, despairing at the OUT OF ORDER sign on the dispenser, and holds out a cheerful yellow-wrapped square with a wry smile.  “Here,” she says.  “I bet we can find a Walgreens later on, too.  I’ll say I got a stomach ache from that last gas station chili dog.”

“ _ Thank you _ ,” Yukari says, heartfelt.  Oh god, Yukari never wants to do this without another girl in the van, ever.

Minako hangs out in the bathroom, leaning against the counter while Yukari washes her hands and tries not to feel too awkward.  “I’m so embarrassed,” Yukari admits.  “I spent a whole day packing, and I didn’t even think about…”

“We used to get moved around a lot,” Minako says.  “Or we’d be out and we wouldn’t get back to whatever home they had us in that night.  I got used to just carrying some things all the time.  I’ve got a spare toothbrush, too.”

Yukari thinks about that for a second--spare pads are one thing, but what kind of life trains somebody to carrying around a spare toothbrush, just in case?--and feels the spark of something like closeness welling up here in this vaguely dingy rest stop bathroom.  Minako’s probably at least as messed up as she is, down underneath.

And no wonder it’s so impossible to phase Minato with anything, if he grew up the same way.  Jeeze.  Yukari’s almost, vaguely, glad for her own mother for the first time in years.

“I owe you one,” she says.  “Thanks.”

“We’ve got to stick together, right?” Minako asks, and throws an arm around Yukari’s shoulders on their way out of the bathroom.

.

_ Make good friends with the other bands :-)! _ says Saturday’s update, coupled with a photo of half a dozen musicians smirking or grinning widely, plus one lead guitarist in the middle with just the slightest hint of a smile playing around his lips.

.

They’re doing five shows in five days on this mini-tour, six if you count the Velvet Room on Tuesday night when they get back home.  It’s meant to be practice, give them a feel for what it’s like to drive around endlessly and only stop to use the bathroom or get more road snacks or go up in front of a new indifferent crowd in a new town and play a show.

Minato likes it.  He can sleep anywhere, any-when--an old talent--and nobody gives him shit for nodding off in the van for half the day.  The tiny differences between the couple of places they’ve seen so far are interesting.  Winning over new crowds--well, that’s just fun.

Half the shows they’re playing are opening for other acts, local musicians or bands on weird little tours like theirs, big enough to pack up and go for a few weeks instead of a few days, small enough that they’re still playing places like Sal’s Jukebox in Plattesville, wherever-this-is.  They crossed a state line somewhere back there.  Or two.  Minato was probably asleep for that part.

The lead singer of the band they’re playing with tonight is...familiar.  In an uncomfortable, unknown sort of way.  He has messy, choppy hair and one single earring on the left side, and hasn’t said much of anything offstage.  Minato’s never met him before in his life.  He’d remember.

“He doesn’t talk much,” the keyboardist in the beret says.  She smiles and tilts her head at him.  Minato hasn’t gotten her name yet.  “You don’t seem like you say too much, either.”

“When I have something to say,” Minato says.  “Have you been a band a long time?”

“Since we were sixteen or seventeen,” she says.  She looks like she might be in her early twenties, somewhere, older than Akihiko.  “How’re you guys doing?  It can be hard, when you’re just starting out.”

“We’re good,” Minato says.  She’s not quite normal either, although she doesn’t quite make his brain crawl like the singer does.  Then again, how many people in this line of work are normal?  “You’re still playing places like this?”

He could do it, he thinks.  Never get bigger than this.  He doesn’t  _ need _ more than this, really, so long as he keeps having this, but.  Yukari and Akihiko would move on.  Junpei would never stand for it.  Yukari’s the only one of them that’s really  _ his _ , and even that’s no guarantee.  How do bands that never quite make it stay together?

The keyboardist’s smile is a little wry and a little sad.  “We do okay for ourselves,” she says.  “Got a few albums out.  We’ve got a few followers.  Somehow I think they’re going to end up liking what you’ve got going on better, though.”

“Yukino, did you want that picture for the Myspace?” the drummer calls.  He has a tattoo on his forehead, a conspicuous lack of shirt, and a general aura of death that really seems to work with the band’s image.  Besides that, he seems to be a relatively nice guy.

The world is full of strange and interesting people.  Minato wouldn’t mind having this band open for them, someday.  Depending on how he feels about the strange, quiet man with the earring.

“Getting to it!” Yukino the keyboardist calls.  “Hey, would you all mind taking some pictures with us?  It’s my hobby.  I like to keep the Myspace up to date.”

“Only if I can take one too,” Minako announces to the room at large.  “I’m supposed to be band support, and I’ve got barely any pictures you can put on your page.  That’s just not right.”

Yukari ends up half on top of his lap, the drummer with the interesting aura pressed up against Minato’s shoulder.  So many interesting people in the world.  So much more interesting when you know you probably never have to see them again in your life.

.

Sunday night, posted very very late:  _ ‘RULE FOUR: ALWAYS KEEP YOUR CELL PHONES CHARGED.’ _

.

“We’re lost,” Junpei says, leaning against the hood of the van.

“We’re not lost!” Minako argues.  She’d been the one driving, after all.

“No, he’s right,” her brother says.  He kicks at a piece of gravel on the shoulder of the road.  “We’re lost.”

“Look, we just need to turn around and head back the way we came.”  Akihiko blames the map he’d been trying to read.  His phone isn’t much good as a GPS, and for some reason Junpei’s the only one who’s been able to make heads or tails out of the paper map they picked up somewhere back around the state line.  “We passed that rest stop just a handful of miles back.”

“Yeah, before somebody turned eleven times trying to find the way back to the main road,” Junpei points out.  “Do you remember the way we came, Mr. Navigator?”

“Um.”  Minako’s biting her lip.  “Also, we might or might not have enough gas to make it back ten miles.  Especially if we don’t know where we’re going.”

That was why they’d turned off the main road two hours ago in the first place.  Why don’t maps mark things like gas stations  _ legibly _ ?

“Hey, guys?” Yukari interrupts.  “My cell service is pretty bad when you get out of the city, but I just tried pulling up Mapquest, and...are any of  _ you _ getting any signal?”

There’s a mad scramble for cell phones then, and Akihiko breathes a little easier when he remembers that he was getting signal just fine, when they pulled over to figure out where they were on this deserted stretch of road a few minutes ago.  He still should be, right?

He still is.  The remaining 3% of his phone battery should be plenty.  Right.

“I’m almost dead,” he reports.  “Anyone?”

“Out of range,” Junpei says, glaring at his phone like it personally offended him.

“Totally dead,” Minako says.

“Also dead,” says Minato.  Then, completely deadpan, he adds, “Probably also out of range.”

“Okay,” Yukari says.  “So basically we’re stuck here until somebody comes along?

“Man, it’s almost dark out,” Junpei gripes.  “Even if we could get back on the road right now, we’re so far out of our way we’d probably be late to the show tonight, and we don’t even know where we are.”

He’s right.  They’re screwed.  They’re probably going to spend the night camping out in the van in the middle of whatever nowhere this is.  But Akihiko’s band is  _ not _ going to pick up a reputation for ditching shows without at least calling in.

“I might have an idea,” he says.  “We can probably stretch the battery on my phone enough for one call.  If we get ahold of Mitsuru, she can call the bar, and maybe triple A or something.”  Mitsuru has a knack for fixing things like this.  Even from a distance.

“If we can do that, why not just call the bar?” Yukari suggests.  “Or get help directly?”

“Because I don’t know how long this’ll work,” Akihiko says.  “It’s not really science.  Who’s got a phone charger?”

This isn’t anything like a  _ spell _ .  Most people Akihiko’s known who say they can do those are full of it, and the ones who aren’t, don’t really seem the type to set up all those incantations and equipment for something like a dead phone battery.  Besides, if they could find a K-Mart or something to pick up real occult supplies, they could just get directions to a gas station in the first place.

The human body runs on electricity, that’s all.  It’s just a little bit of will and power.  Anybody can do  _ that _ , if they try hard enough.

He sticks the charger into his phone and then hands the cell to Minato, who can be trusted to get the message across in as few words as humanly possible.  The metal plug end goes between his fingers, digging into his fist, and Akihiko  _ squeezes. _

A little tickle, like a static electricity shock, that’s all it feels like, but that’s all he needs.  He smiles smugly, and Junpei gapes at him like he just did something really cool, like playing an entire Rush song beat-perfect.  

Hey, maybe he’ll give La Villa Strangiato another shot when they get home.

.

Monday’s post comes somewhere around mid-afternoon, with a blurry cell phone picture of light streaming through a van window, silhouetting headrests and heads into shadow.   _ Never underestimate the power of the group sing-along. _

.

“Take the turnoff for Highway E when we get there,” Junpei says.  Minato doesn’t even glance over at him.  Junpei pokes him in the right arm, because he’ll be  _ damned _ if they get lost  _ again _ because their Brooding Emo Overlord can’t take directions.  “Hey, dude, eleven miles.  Highway E.”

“I heard you,” Minato says mildly.

“Don’t harass the driver,” Akihiko says from somewhere in back of the van.

“Sure,  _ Dad _ ,” Junpei shoots back.

“Oh my  _ god _ ,” Yukari sighs gustily.

“My iPod’s dead,” Minako announces.  She’s annoyed, great.  “How long until we’re there?”

“Another four hours, and we’re not stopping until we’re at least at the interstate,” Junpei says.

“You can’t just decide that,” Yukari says.

“Um, hello, navigator?”  Junpei twists around in his seat and rattles the paper map at her.  “I can tell you there’s nowhere to stop for the next fifty miles.”

“Can we please just put the radio back on?” Minako asks.  “We’ve got to be able to pick up one decent station, right?”

Junpei’s pretty sure he hears Akihiko say something like “not again”, but he’s already hitting the dial on the ancient van radio.  It staticks into life, nothing but middle-of-nowhere fuzz, and he plays with the scan until the twang of a guitar is at least mostly clear.

“We are  _ not _ playing ‘Country or Christian?’ again,” Yukari groans.  “I’m not doing it.”

“This one’s definitely Christian,” Minako votes.

“No way, he just sang something about whiskey at the bar,” Junpei argues.

“Oh my god, I’ll jump out of this van,” says Yukari.

“Christian,” Minato says, deadpan.  “It’s the key signature.”

“It’s both, it’s  _ always _ both,” groans Akihiko from the back.  “I can’t believe you’re playing that stupid game again.”

“I can’t believe your van is this old and doesn’t even have a cassette slot we can plug an iPod adapter into,” Yukari shoots back at him.  She’s just been bitchy at everybody for like two days.  It’s been even worse since last night’s fun sleeping in a Wal-mart parking lot adventure.  Ugh.  Junpei’s back is still sore.

“I can’t believe you’re complaining when I’m the only one here who actually owns a car, let alone a van we can tour in.”

“I can’t believe you two are having this argument  _ again _ ,” says Junpei.  “This is like the sixth time!”

“Well, I can’t believe  _ someone _ finished off all of the sweet potato chips my boyfriend made.”  Minako punctuates it with a kick at the back of Junpei’s chair, and he twists in his seat to glare at her.

“I can’t believe we have an extra two hours to drive today because I’m the only person in this entire van who can read a map!”  Yukari literally had it upside down this morning.  And  _ Junpei _ is supposed to be the stupid one?  He takes a swipe at Minako’s foot when she kicks out again.

“Don’t harass the driver,” Minato says, when Junpei’s elbow  _ maybe _ bumps into the gearshift just a little.  Which is basically his way of being way too fucking cool to actually say  _ I can’t believe I’m stuck in a van with all of you morons _ .  Asshole.

Junpei lets his butt hit the seat again, though, and glances out the window to check the mile markers.  Of course they’re not even close to missing the turnoff for Highway E.  That’s something, at least.

“Seriously, if we’re going to listen to something, can it at least have less static?” Yukari asks.  “I’ve got a headache.”

“I’m putting a CD on,” Junpei announces.  “I  _ was _ going to save this for our triumphant trip home, but seeing as how that’s getting put off by a whole day--”

“The CDs in the case are arranged chronologically--”

“By genre and then alphabetically by artist,” Minako finishes.  “We know.”

“Sorry, Akihiko, we’re skipping the massive collection of 70’s prog rock today,” Junpei says.  The clear plastic jewel case is in the backpack by his feet, and something has to be done in here or they’ll murder each other before they even get up on stage tonight.  “It’s time for Junpei Iori’s 100% guaranteed sing-along road trip mix.”

“Sing-along?”  Junpei doesn’t even have to turn around to look, he can  _ hear _ the eyeroll in Yukari’s voice.  “Seriously?”  He ignores her and hits ‘play’.

“...wait a second,” Minako says, when [the first chords start playing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSvLTZu8Ejc).

“Is this the  _ Backtreet Boys? _ ”  Akihiko sounds scandalized.  Junpei grins smugly.  His money had been on Yukari placing the song first, but this is basically even better.

“Trust in the playlist,” he says.

“Oh my  _ god _ ,” Yukari groans.

“C’mon, you’re going to tell me you don’t know the words?”  Junpei won’t buy it if she does.  “ _ Believe, when I say-- _ ”

“ _ I want it that way, _ ” Minako fills in.  “No way.”

“We are not doing this,” Yukari says.  “Oh my god.  I haven’t heard this song since I was  _ twelve _ .”

“You can’t resist it,” Junpei says.  “C’mon.   _ Tell me why-- _ ”

“ _ Ain’t nothing but a heartache, _ ” Yukari sings.  Junpei twists the dial louder.

The girls are definitely giggling more than singing, but they’re not kicking the back of his chair any more, so that’s a win.  It’s the magic of cheesy nineties pop.  By the time the chords build up to the bridge, even Minato is humming along,  _ you are, you are, you are, you aaare, _ dun, dun, dun, dun.

“ _ Don’t want to hear you saaaaaaaaay,” _ the entire back of the van belts out together.  Top of their lungs.  Even Akihiko’s slightly off-key baritone.  Fucking  _ win. _

“Oh my god,” Yukari giggles for the millionth time as the song fades away and Junpei twists the volume way back down.  “I want to know how Akihiko knew every single word.”

“My...my little sister,” Akihiko says.  “She liked that kind of music.”  When Junpei cranes his neck around, he’s leaning back against the van seat, staring out the window with a distant kind of smile.

“Man, bro, I didn’t even know you had a sister,” Junpei says.  The things you learn about your bandmates, seriously.

“Had,” Akihiko says.

Well, shit.

“I...I’m sorry, man,” Junpei says.  Jeeze, does everybody in this van have some terrible tragic backstory?  No wonder they all play such depressing music.

“Hey,” Yukari interrupts, way less bitchy than she’d been earlier.  “Is this the Beatles?  Turn it up.”

Junpei reaches for the dial but Minato’s already there, turning the volume up just below the level where it might start to block out their own voices.   _ Hey, you’ve got to hide your love away. _

“I love this song,” Yukari says.  “My dad...he used to really like the Beatles a lot.  He’d play them all the time.”

“Ours too,” Minato says, not turning his head even a fraction away from his dead-eyed stare down the open road.

“ _[How can I even try, I can never win](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFgRKdsLfLc)_ _. _ ”  Minako picks the melody up.  Her voice isn’t quite as eerily  _ whatever _ as her brother’s is, but it’s still a damn good singing voice, and it cuts through the van like a knife sliding through butter.  It effectively cuts off any more depressing conversation, too, even though the song itself is way more depressing than Junpei ever really noticed, under the bouncing melody.  Yukari’s humming along and Akihiko’s tapping out a beat on the back of the bench where the girls are sitting by the last chorus.  Good enough.

They don’t even miss the exit for Highway E, even though all five of them are belting out an ode to “ _ SWEET CAROLIIIIIIIIINE!  (bah, bah, bah) _ ”, and Junpei doesn’t even see the ramp until Minato’s already got them on it.  Hey.  Good times never felt so good.

.

Tuesday:   _ Don’t sleep with your bandmates.  Or their sisters. _

.

“We’re fine!”  A bubbly little giggle.  “I swear, I rationed out the homemade jerky.  We’ve still got some left.  I’ll be home by the time you’re out of work tomorrow morning.”

Akihiko doesn’t usually make it a habit to listen in to other people’s phone conversations, but the little gravel area outside the rest stop isn’t that big and Minako’s voice is...well, he notices it, okay.

He notices her.  She’s noticeable.  It’s hard to believe she’s Minato’s actual sister sometimes, with the way he could fade into the shadows in the middle of an empty room and Akihiko can’t ever quite seem to take his eyes off of her.

Then again, it’s two sides of the same coin, right?  And Akihiko’s seen the way Minato can step into a spotlight and glow when he decides to.  They’re not really like anyone else, the Arisato siblings.  Maybe it’s a twin thing.

“I love you,” she says, and Akihiko thinks,  _ good _ , as fiercely as he’s ever thought anything.  Good.  Shinji deserves that.  It’s still kind of amazing that Shinji’s let himself  _ have _ it at all--but then, it’s hard to imagine anyone saying no to Minako if she set her sights on them.

“Hey,” says Minako, and Akihiko fiddles with his phone and pretends he’s not listening to any of this.  “Tomorrow.  I’ll see you, okay?”

He’d really just wanted some fresh air.  They’ve got some extra time to kill today with their weird rewritten road schedule, and nobody wants to impose on tonight’s venue too long after everything.  So they’ve been hanging around this roadside middle-of-nowhere, keeping an eye on the clock and breathing some air that hasn’t been closed up inside a van full of people for five days.

Mitsuru is magic and terrifying as always, which means that from two hundred miles away she managed to negotiate the venue they missed playing at on Sunday into letting them go on tonight.  They’ll be right back on the road afterwards to make it home without spending another night in a crappy motel they can’t afford, driving straight through the night, whoever can stay up to do it.  It’s the kind of gritty, small-band touring that Akihiko never really did when he was sixteen.  They’ve just all got to toughen up, that’s all.

There’s no point in pretending he hadn’t heard at least some of the phone conversation when Minako comes around the corner of the building back towards the side door.  She smiles at him.  His stomach twinges.  How do you tell the difference between butterflies and guilt?  Probably it’s just the greasy, sub-par burgers they had for lunch.  Akihiko needs a healthier source of road protein.  Maybe if the jerky rations were bigger.

“How’s he doing?” Akihiko asks.

“He’s ok,” Minako says.  “You know Shinji.  He won’t admit to being lonely.”

“I know Shinji,” Akihiko echoes.  For the longest time, he’d been the only one who really knew Shinji.  Now…

“Look,” Akihiko says, what he’s been putting off saying for six days.  “You know what this week is.”

It’s Tuesday, October second.  He hadn’t brought it up when they’d planned out the tour because Akihiko can’t let himself schedule his life around something that happened three years ago, but it’s Tuesday, October second, and that matters.

Minako nods.  “We don’t talk about it a lot,” she says.  “I think he kind of wanted to be alone.”

“He likes to pretend things don’t bother him,” Akihiko says.  “But--”

“I know,” she says.  “It’s okay.  Maybe you should come by on Thursday after all.”

She invites him, because Shinji’s apartment is her apartment too now.  It’s the closest thing to an  _ invitation _ Akihiko’s gotten into his best friend’s life in years.  Usually Akihiko just shows up, because it’s his right, he belongs, and if he doesn’t bully his way in--

“I’m glad he’s got you now,” Akihiko says, and means it.  Her smile dimples up her cheeks.  It reminds him, breathtakingly, of Miki.

This would be so easy if she were just like any one of the endless, vaguely annoying girls around the scene whose names Akihiko can never remember.  A couple of days ago they had the overnight driving shift together, just the two of them in the dark of the rolling highway with Junpei and Yukari snoring in harmony in back, hour upon hour of just each other.  He’s so much more comfortable with her than he should be.

And Akihiko doesn’t really want to sleep with her, and he doesn’t really want to sleep with Shinji, five-years-ago notwithstanding, but if this isn’t what jealousy feels like then Akihiko can’t imagine what is.

“He’s got both of us now,” Minako says, and then Junpei crunches up across the gravel as loud as a ten-ton truck, saving Akihiko from having to figure out what to say to any of it.

“I thought it was too cold and you wanted to stay with the van,” Akihiko says.  Junpei pulls a disgusted face.

“I did, until somebody started making out practically on top of it,” he says.  “Again.”

Akihiko scowls.  “They shouldn’t be doing that.”  Yukari and Minato both take the band seriously, he knows they do, but if anything’s going to ruin them it’s this.  He doesn’t even get why two reasonably smart people would be so irresponsible.

“Should I go break it up?” Minako offers.  “They’re not going to get arrested for public indecency, right?”

“Everyone’s shirt was still on, I just didn’t feel like listening to it up against the side of the van while I’m  _ in it _ ,” Junpei says.  “So what’s up over here?”

“No, I mean it,” Akihiko says.  “It’s the kind of thing that ruins bands.”

Technically speaking, it’s not like Akihiko really has room to preach, but SEES at age sixteen isn’t exactly a model anybody should be emulating for healthy, band-strengthening behavior.  Besides, Minato and Yukari aren’t a couple of blushing virgins leaning on somebody they trust to figure out how to deal with the hordes of fans suddenly coming out of the woodwork.  They clearly both know how sex works.  So why do they have to have it with each other?

“It’ll be okay,” Minako says.  “My brother’s kind of an idiot, but he won’t break her heart or anything.  He’ll wait until she’s ready to be done with him.”

“That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard,” Junpei announces.  “Wait until she’s  _ done _ with him?”

“That’s how he works,” Minako shrugs.  “He won’t mind.  He’s only ever kind of in love in the first place.”

.

_ One more rule: expect the unexpected _ , the Myspace update says on Wednesday morning.   _ Wednesday 10/3 show at the Velvet Room (originally scheduled for Tuesday 10/2) now postponed for Tuesday 10/8. _

.

The thing Minato likes most or least about touring, and he hasn’t decided yet which, is how it throws his whole life into such stark relief.  23 hours a day, he’s on standby, waiting in the wings, killing off time.  Then he goes onstage.

It’s not that much different than any other time or place, but it’s harder to ignore, here.  At home in the city it’s easier to fill the other 23 hours up with new people and different places, going to work, sitting in a coffee shop pretending to be a normal guy.  Here it’s just endless road punctuated with, well...this.

“Look, I’m not a mechanic,” the grizzled man from the only roadhouse bar in twenty miles says to Akihiko, and Yukari, and Junpei, and Minako, all of whom are hanging on his every word.  “But I’d say 90, 95% chance you’ve got a busted thermostat and that’s why you’re overheating like that.”

Minato hangs back near the rear wheel well, out of everybody’s way.  He doesn’t know any more about cars than any of them, and the rest of the band’s got the freaking out taken care of without him.  They don’t need him for this.

“Is that bad?” Junpei asks.

“Nah,” the man says.  “I’ve got a buddy Jimmy the next town over, can replace it in about twenty minutes.  Hundred bucks, parts and labor, and you’re on your way again.  He could do it right here in the parking lot.”

“That’s great!”  Akihiko’s in a hurry to get home.  Usually he’s a lot less thrilled about spending that much money.

“Only problem is,” the man continues, “I gave Jimmy a call, he says he’s got a guy out sick and two cars up on blocks at his shop, he can’t get out here until tomorrow morning.  Now if you could get the car there, he can take care of it, but it’s about twenty, thirty miles up some pretty curvy roads, and any tow truck out here’s gonna cost you, if you can even get one.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Yukari repeats.

“No way,” says Minako.  “We can’t…”

They’re going to argue whether he says anything or not, so Minato keeps his mouth shut.  Watches a couple of sparrows hopping around along the edge of the parking lot.  Waits.

“--don’t have that kind of money on hand,” Yukari is saying.  “Come on, what do you think?”

She’s addressing him directly, so fine.  Minato un-slouches a little and looks at the roadhouse guy.  “Can we park in your lot overnight?” he asks.  “We’ll play a set for a free dinner.”

It’s basically the same deal they struck last night, give or take fifty bucks.  The man looks suspicious.

“You any good?” he asks.

“We like classic rock too,” Minato says.  Why do people always ask that question?

“Deal,” the guy says.  “Tell you what, they actually like you I’ll throw in half the cash on your part tomorrow morning.”  He holds out his hand to shake.  Minato takes it before the rest of the band can get it together to object.

“Are you kidding me?” Junpei demands as soon as the guy is ten feet away.  “We can’t play here!  This is the most country-hick place I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Minato doesn’t think it’s that different from a couple of places they’ve been this week so far, but he shrugs.  “Play ‘Sweet Home Alabama’,” he suggests.

They’ve been through Junpei’s sing-along mix CD five times in the past two days.  If there’s anybody in the van who doesn’t know their full part on ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ by now, they don’t deserve to be in this band.

“And after that?” Yukari asks.  Minato shrugs again.

“Classic rock,” he says.  Works well enough.

There’s a moment where he’s not sure they’re going to go along with it, Yukari and Junpei and Akihiko all exchanging looks.  Finally, Akihiko says, “If we do this, it’s not about selling the band.  We’re singing for our supper.  It’s different.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Junpei asks, but Yukari nods.

“No, he’s right,” she says.  “Minato, you should take the lead.  We need to impress them, and...we trust you.”

Minato nods, accepting it.  He can do that.  He can bring out the big guns, even.  Which means...he shoots a look at his sister.

“Take second guitar,” he says.

Minato can do things to a crowd, with his voice, with his playing.  Minako’s exactly the same as he is.  If they’re pulling out all the stops, they might as well go all out.  Just this once.

“No,” she says.  “I’m mad at you.  I wanted to get home tonight.”

“Call your boyfriend, then take second guitar.”  She’ll play.  She can’t turn down that direct offer any more than he can.

Minako rolls her eyes and stalks off. Minato sticks his hands back in his pockets and leans back against the van.

“Okay, but how about a set list?” Junpei demands.  “What  _ songs?   _ We haven't learned anything!”

“We've got twelve hours,” Minato points out.  If they really need it. 

They're twenty minutes into arguing over Rolling Stones when Minako comes back, hand on her hip and a wry smile.  “You should do Hotel California,” she says.  “The long version. It's like ten minutes, that's a fifth of a set.”

“I can't play that,” Yukari blurts out.  “That's a massive solo.”

“She can,” says Minato.  It's a peace offering. It's going to net them more cash in tips tonight than the rest of the tour put together. 

.

_ Last morning of the tour _ , the Myspace reads, 6 AM local time on Thursday morning.   _ If I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that rule number one is, everybody pulls their own weight.  See you guys at home soon!  -Y<3 _

.

Yukari can’t sleep.

She’s gotten more or less used to the van this week, although it’ll be nice to get somewhere that doesn’t smell like unwashed musician and dirty socks again.  Junpei and Akihiko each got one of the two remaining seat benches for the night, for being the tallest, but there’s an old blanket and plenty of room in the back here if she’s just careful how she curls up next to the drum kit.  It’s warm enough outside, and warm in here with five bodies all tucked in together.  It shouldn’t be that hard to fall back to sleep.

She’d crashed hard after they finished the show, that’s for sure.  But the LED glow of her phone screen says it’s 4:43 in the morning and she’s wide awake.

Part of it’s Junpei’s snoring, maybe, but more of it’s probably the near-silent twang of someone fingering lightly over the strings of an electric guitar that’s not plugged in.  Some of it’s the chords still rolling through her head from five hours ago, haunting, _[only for a moment then the moment’s gone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=12DeNdF0KPA)_ .  Some of it’s just her.

She sighs and shifts to sit up, at least, if she can’t doze off.  The full moon’s bright enough to see Minato sitting up on the other side of the van, head tilted back against the wall, not even looking as his fingers press over the strings.  Like he can’t even stop.

“Can’t sleep either?” Yukari asks quietly.  They’ve learned this week how most of the people in this van can sleep through just about anything, but it’s dark and close and quiet enough in here that it seems wrong to break the atmosphere with anything louder.

“Napped all yesterday afternoon,” Minato says, and he had, too.  All afternoon while Yukari and Junpei and Akihiko hashed out a set list and tried to get a handful of chord progressions down from Google and Youtube on their phones.  He was on vocals, he said, and they were all familiar songs.  Right.

“Where’s--oh.”  Minako had been awake yesterday, distant but there.  Minato shifts a little, and Yukari spots her, a dark lump buried under three stolen hoodies and curled up against the wheel well, fast asleep.  He’s using her for a back rest.  Siblings are weird.

These siblings are...god.  God.  Scary.

Minako’s not in the band and Minako doesn’t want to be in the band.  Yukari likes her, thinks they might even be friends--no stupid catty scene drama competing over boys, if Yukari’s with Minako’s brother, and that’s killed more female proto-friendships than Yukari cares to remember--but thank god.  Who needs a band when you can just do  _ that _ onstage?

“What are you playing?” Yukari asks instead.  She can just about pick out the chords as they go, D-minor, E-minor, F, G.  Not a song she recognizes.  “Something new?”

“Just fucking around,” he says.  “We’ll see.”

“You should sing it when it’s done,” Yukari says.  She has to say it now, at 4:45 in the morning in the pale moonlight, or she won’t later.

“I don’t do lyrics,” Minato says, and sure, at least that’s still something Yukari can contribute to this band.  Her kind of pathetic lyrics.  Well, every song needs them.

“I mean onstage,” she says.  “You should sing onstage, with the band.  Our songs, not just when we do covers.”

She knows his voice is special.  Yukari’s  _ known _ that, for months now, but she’s been selfish.  She likes singing her own songs.  But after tonight…

“You’re our singer,” Minato says.  “I’ll do the backup parts.”

“I shouldn’t be, though,” Yukari says.  “You’re better than me.”

His hands haven’t stopped moving over the guitar strings this whole time, but that’s what makes him shift and finally lift his head.  The glitter in the darkness says he’s opened his eyes.  “I’m not,” Minato says.

“You are,” says Yukari.  “Maybe you’re not better trained or more technically perfect, but you’re a better singer than me.”

“Tonight was--”

“I don’t mean tonight,” she interrupts.  “Tonight was a fluke.  I know that.  It wasn’t us, it wasn’t our band.  It was the two of you.”

It was magic.  That’s the only word for it, tonight was magic,  _ actual _ magic, the kind you’re supposed to stay away from and some people say doesn’t even really exist.  The kind that doesn’t even need a spellbook because it lives in the silver liquid singing of guitar strings plucked faster and faster and faster, and the vibrato of a voice that could cut somebody right in half.

They’d played for three hours straight.  Somewhere around the first hour they’d taken a five-minute break and Yukari had collapsed against a wall to chug an entire glass and a half of Coke, but she’d hit her second wind and managed another hour, maybe another hour and a half.  She lost track somewhere.  Junpei bowed out a song or two before she did, handed his bass off to Minato and just left the stage, and the next time they took a break Yukari fell into a chair and couldn’t get back up. 

Minato and his sister played and sang for three hours with only those couple of three-minute breaks, and by the ten minute mark of the first set it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d spent the whole rest of the time playing ‘MMMBop’ over and over and over again.  The whole bar was theirs.  They  _ owned _ it.

“We were all up there,” Minato says, noncommittal.

“Don’t be stupid,” Yukari snaps.  “We didn’t even practice half of those songs.  There’s no way we should have been able to play that well.  Junpei can’t play like that.   _ I _ can’t play like that.”  Could she even remember some of those chords if she had her guitar in hand right now? _[Seasons don’t fear the reaper, nor do the wind, the sun or the rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVn6b9QQZeM)_ _. _  Minato’s voice, and Minako’s backup vocals,  _ singing don’t be afraid _ .  Every man and woman in that bar had been ready to throw themselves off a cliff at their command.  Yukari’s fingers moving on instinct over the strings like she’d never done anything else in her entire life besides playing that song, on that stage, in that moment.

“It wasn’t real,” Minato says.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“What are you two, anyway?” Yukari asks.  “What, are you the actual Orpheus reincarnated in two bodies or something?”  She’d believe it if he said so.  She’d believe just about anything tonight.

The moonlight glints off the bridge of his guitar, the shine of his eyes, his teeth--is that an actual smile?  “No,” Minato says.  “We’re just...different.”

“Yeah,” Yukari sighs, slumping back against her wall of the van.  “You’ve got that right.”

He doesn’t say anything after that--of course, why would he, when does he ever.  Minato doesn’t talk.  He plays, and sings, and...and kisses her, sometimes, usually when she kisses him first, and the tattoos she can just barely make out in this predawn dimness move under her hands and lips, never quite as still as they should be, never quite the right texture for skin.  He’s not like other people.  Yukari knows that.  She’s known that since the beginning.

“You should still be lead singer, though,” she says.  “Even when it’s not like that, you’ve got something special.  Something I don’t have.  And if we really want to make it, we should throw our biggest guns out there, right?”

Quiet, again.  Not silence, with Junpei’s snoring and the very distant hum of road noises, the slow pluck of strings.  Definitely not  _ silence _ , because then she’s right back to _[the vision that was planted in my brain still remains](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZYpzXjdtwg)_ _. _  But she wonders for a minute if Minato’s going to answer her at all.

“I don’t want to do this alone,” he says finally.  “There’s no point.”

The part of Yukari’s chest that  _ needs this _ clenches and relaxes all at once.  Nobody’s getting rid of her.  Not yet.  “Me either,” she says.  “But let’s do it right.”

If they’re going to do it right, they should stop having sex before her heart gets even more twisted up and confused around him.  Maybe.  Maybe soon.  Once she knows it won’t kill her, next time she sees him with another girl.  There’s no way Minato will stay alone long.

“Okay,” he concedes.  “I’ll sing more.  Write me more lyrics.”

She can do that much, at least.  He can carry her words.  People will take them seriously if Minato’s the one singing them.

Songs about love and death, huh.  Yeah.  She can do that.

.

It’s two in the afternoon by the time Akihiko’s van lets her out at the curb in front of the apartment building.  Minako takes half a second to slam the door behind her and wave, then takes the stairs two at a time.

The apartment’s empty except for the afternoon sunlight, the reek of spilled coffee and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.  She’d half expected that, or something like that.  It’s October 4th.  She really should have been home two days ago.  Maybe she doesn’t actually belong here today at all.

He’s sitting on the wooden steps of the fire escape when Minako looks out the back door.  He doesn’t look up.  Maybe she should leave him be.  It’s hard to tell.  Minako’s always been good at making people like her, but that’s not the same as being good at  _ people _ .  It’s important to be good at Shinji.  It’s important to be good  _ to _ him.

She sits down on the step right above him, and he moves his arms enough for her knees to fit on either side of his waist.  She squeezes up as tight to Shinji’s back as she can.  He’s here, warm and solid and still in one piece and apparently sober, so she doesn’t have to be scared for him any more.  It’s just a day, right?  Just like any other day.

“I’m home,” she says.  Shinji takes a long drag on the cigarette in his hand.  Judging by the pile of butts near her foot, it’s number six or so.  “I missed you.”

“Tch,” Shinji says.  “You have the weirdest judgment.”  He sags back against her anyway, heavy against her chest.  Minako wraps her arms around his chest and squeezes.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t back earlier,” she says.  “Traffic sucks.”

“Forget it,” he says.  “I should be welcoming you back better.  Maybe you should’ve gone to the bar with the guys.”

His voice is more gravelly than usual, like he hasn’t talked to anyone except their brief phone calls for the past week, or like he’s been sitting here in the cold October sun chain-smoking his way through half a pack of cigarettes over the past four hours.  Or both.  Shinji’s not usually a smoker, except for every once in a while, when he really wants to grab for something a lot stronger than coffee.  When Minako’s actually home, sometimes she can grab for him instead, and it’s all okay for a while, but she’s not always home.  She can’t fix him.

She doesn’t need him to be fixed, except for how much it hurts when he hurts and she can’t stop it.  But that’s okay.  Minako can handle pain.  She just needs Shinji not to be too broken to get up again.

“I love you,” she says.  “I want to be here.”

“I still can’t figure out why,” says Shinji.  He sighs.  “Sorry.  I’m not exactly fun to be around today.”

“It’s okay,” Minako promises.  “I know what today is.  Do you want to talk about it?”

“I want a drink,” Shinji says.  Then, when she doesn’t say anything, “Don’t worry.  I didn’t.”

“I know,” she says.

It’s weird to think about how she’s never actually seen him drunk.  She’s heard stories, that’s all, a thousand stories from all over the scene, a year of half-sentences from him, mostly in the dark where it feels safer to talk.  She knows  _ about _ Shinjiro Aragaki, local legend, but she’s never known any man but this one.

“You going to tell me it wasn’t my fault?” he asks.  Minako squeezes a little tighter.

“I don’t care,” she says.

.

“Hey,” Akihiko asks.  “You see Shinji at all while we were gone?”

God only knows why he’s already up at this hour.  He was in bed by the time Mitsuru got home from the office last night.  She’d planned to catch up with him about the mini-tour...this afternoon, maybe, or tomorrow, or some other day.  There’d been a lot of paperwork yesterday, that was all.

Besides, the box of kleenex on the breakfast bar and extra tablespoon of spirulina in Akihiko’s regular breakfast smoothie says he’s fighting off a case of tour crud, and she doesn’t have time to be sick.  Mitsuru stays carefully on the opposite side of the condo’s kitchenette.

“You know he doesn’t talk to me,” she says.  Not three words since rehab.  Mitsuru refuses to take it personally.

“I just thought…” Akihiko sighs.  “Minako’s been good for him, y’know.”

“I’ve only met her the once,” Mitsuru says noncommittally.  She’s got no place to judge what Shinjiro does or doesn’t do with his life these days.  That’s abundantly clear.  “How was she on the tour, besides a dangerous navigator?”

“That wasn’t her fault,” Akihiko says instantly.  “I was the one with the map.”

“Akihiko.”  She doesn’t really need to say more than his name.  He flushes and looks away at his smoothie.

“We owe you for that,” he says.  “You really saved our bacon.  Thanks.”

“You said before you left that this tour would tell you something,” Mitsuru says.  “Have you figured out whatever that is?”

She sips her coffee and lets him sit quiet for a moment, collecting his thoughts.  She’s always known how to wait Akihiko out.

“This is it,” he says finally.  “This is what I’ve been waiting for.  I belong in this band, and you should be a part of this too.”

“...Akihiko.”  How does he still take her by surprise?  Mitsuru bites her lip.

“Quit your job and be our manager,” Akihiko says, with that daring, devilish grin he’s had since they were fifteen years old.  “Come on.  You hate working for the label.  I know you don’t want to get back up on stage again, but...don’t you remember what it was like, being on this side of things?  Don’t you miss it?”

Does she miss it?  The sweat crawling down her neck and the roar of a worked-up crowd?  The endless parade of shit motel rooms and nights sleeping on a cramped tour bus?  Moving all the time, never stopping, a shot of whiskey before every show and only two people in the whole world there by her side for it all?

The music?

“We’re not children any more, Akihiko,” Mitsuru says.

“You’re 21,” Akihiko says.  “Most people our age aren’t even out of college.  And there you are, sitting behind a desk all day like some middle-aged suit.  Does Ikutsuki still treat you like his intern?”

“That’s not the point,” Mitsuru says, tightly enough that of course Akihiko knows the answer is yes.  After all, he can read her just as well as she can read him.

“We’re going to be big, Mitsuru,” Akihiko says.  “This is it.”

“I’m happy for you.”  She is.  She really is.  One of them had to trip and fall into actual happiness instead of just something that more or less looks like it.  Of course it would be Akihiko.  He was never any good at doing anything with less than 110%.

And Mitsuru’s moved on and grown up, obviously.  That’s why she’s living here in this half-million-dollar condo bought mostly with her father’s money with her best friend from high school instead of some man she might actually stand a chance at marrying someday.  Of course.

“What do you need?” Mitsuru asks.  Akihiko looks surprised.  “Look.  I can’t join you.  But I will do what I can to help.”

“We’re not ready to sign a deal yet,” he says.  “Soon, I think.  But not yet.”

It’ll be a better contract than SEES ever saw.  Mitsuru will make sure of that, one way or another.

“Recording space, then,” she says.  “I can find some holes in the schedule at the studio, under the table, of course.  You’ll need to find your own producer, but…”

“Are you serious?”  Mitsuru smiles at the slightly gobsmacked look on Akihiko’s face.  It’s a generous offer.  It’s the least she can do.

“I need to get in to the office,” she says, leaving her mostly-empty coffee cup in the sink and heading towards the coat rack.  “Make sure you get some rest today.  Tell your band what I said.”

She’d better get going.  After all, if Akihiko really thinks they’ll be ready to sign with a label soon, Mitsuru has some work to do.

.

Junpei and Akihiko are both sick for like three days after they get home from tour, and Yukari’s got classwork to make up, anyway.  She’d known she was going to skip Thursday, Monday, and Tuesday’s classes, but missing Wednesday and a second Thursday in a row hadn’t been part of the plan.  She’s got a stack of photocopied lecture notes from a couple of friends, but she’s going to have to talk fast to pull her grade up in her Modern Lit discussion section.

So they don’t see much of each other through the weekend, and that’s fine.  Minato’s working at the Velvet Room on Saturday when Yukari calls, fed up enough with her stupid assigned readings that she either needs a beer or to throw something at the wall, but that’s fine too.  She’s been neglecting her actual college friends.  They’re not necessarily better company than her band, but they’re a lot less complicated, sometimes.

They’re supposed to play the Velvet Room on Tuesday, to make up for the triumphant homecoming show they ended up missing by two days last week.  Minato’s vaguely inexplicable underage bartender connections get them a couple of hours on the stage early Monday afternoon, after Yukari’s music theory lecture gets out, which is pretty typical even if she still doesn’t really understand how he does it.  The Velvet Room is...strange.

Minato shows up ten minutes late from the opposite direction of the front door, carrying two guitar cases and a plastic bag from Guitar Center over one arm.  “Here,” he says, tossing the bag towards Yukari.  She fumbles it before she manages to catch what’s inside: a three-pack of replacement guitar strings, mid-gauge, the fancy kind with the extra coating so they last longer.  She snapped four strings on tour last week--not that she can’t replace her own, but it’s sweet, having a kind-of-boyfriend who’d pick them up for her.

Then he holds the other guitar case, the unfamiliar one, out to Junpei.  “Trade you,” he says.  “Give me your bass.”

“Huh?”  Junpei doesn’t seem to get it, but neither does Yukari, at first.  He passes over his guitar willingly enough, snaps the new case open curiously.  “Huh,” he repeats, obviously unimpressed.  “Wood finish?”

“Hold on, is that a Stingray?” Yukari asks, peering over curiously.  She’s not much for basses, herself, but she appreciates a nice instrument when she sees it.  And she  _ likes _ varnished wood finish on a guitar, even if it’s not cool enough for Junpei.

“Not yet,” Minato says.  “Sterling SUB Ray4.  Should play better than the old one.”

“Hey, what do you mean, ‘the old one’?” Junpei asks suspiciously.  Minato’s busy detaching the strap from Junpei’s bass, and Yukari’s got a bad feeling about this.

“Your bass was crap,” Minato says.  “You needed a better one.”

“Hold on a second, did you just  _ buy _ him a $300 guitar?” Yukari asks.  Minato shrugs.

“Wait, what?”  Junpei stares longingly at the red and black guitar in Minato’s hands.  “But...Susan!”

“You named your bass  _ Susan? _ ”  Akihiko peers over from the drum kit, a little mocking.

“She seemed like a Susan!” Junpei says defensively.  “Dude, what are you doing with my guitar?”

“Pawn it,” says Minato.  “Make up some cash for the new one.”

“Minato, you can’t just pawn somebody else’s guitar!”  Yukari’s hands tighten on the neck of her own guitar possessively.  It’s a better quality instrument than Junpei’s admittedly crappy old bass, but it’s still not exactly top of the line.  Minato blinks up from behind the fringe of his bangs.

“You said I should be in charge of band equipment,” he points out, like it’s completely reasonable.

“Yeah, like amps and shit, not taking away my guitar!”

“You can keep it if you don’t ever play it on stage again,” Minato says, like it’s that simple.  Yukari’s still gaping.

“Then how are you affording the new one?” she demands.  Minato still doesn’t have his own apartment.  He crashes with her three nights a week.  She doesn’t even always know where he’s staying, the other four.  “There’s no way it would ever cover half the cost of that new bass in the first place!”

He shrugs.  “Did Elizabeth a favor,” he says.  “Junpei needed a new guitar.”

“Yes, but you can’t just…”  Yukari huffs to a trailed-off stop somewhere in the middle of the sentence.  He can, can’t he?  He’s Minato.  He does whatever he wants.

“Susan!” Junpei says again, snatching the old bass back from Minato’s hands.  “Don’t you worry, I’m going to take good care of you.”

“If Junpei’s done cooing over his instrument, can we practice?” Akihiko asks.  “We’ve got a show tomorrow and we need at least two more songs if we’re going to put out an EP that’s worth the time in the recording studio.”

“Who said anything about a recording studio?” Yukari asks.

“Mitsuru’s pulling us some strings,” says Akihiko.  “We’ll have to find our own producer--”

“I know a girl,” Minato says, because of course he does.  Minato knows everyone.

“But who said we wanted to…”  Yukari stops.

This is it, isn’t it?  Mini-tours and EPs and new instruments, everything building one step at a time onto something else.  She can get off the ride now or see it through, but this is what’s happening next, and there’s no stopping it.

Orpheus isn’t going to stop small.  She knows enough about the scene, enough about music, to know that every time Minato sings.

She’ll break up with him after practice, then.  Dragging things out won’t be good for the band.

“Okay,” Yukari says.  “So we’re going to cut an EP.  Then I guess we should get practicing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have played Country-or-Christian while driving around the back roads of Kansas.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [c-is-for-circinate](http://c-is-for-circinate.tumblr.com/), or more Persona collab stuff at [heythatsdeath](https://heythatsdeath.tumblr.com/)!


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